


i still feel alive (i can feel it)

by shootsharpest



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hospitals, Kissing, M/M, Sharing Magic, Short & Sweet, post-humdrum, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootsharpest/pseuds/shootsharpest
Summary: “It’s yours,” he argues.“It’s yours, too. I want you to have it.”--a short, magic-centric fix-it for the end of carry on.





	i still feel alive (i can feel it)

**Author's Note:**

> it's three days til wayward son and i needed to get this out of my system so i finished it! a mini fix-it because i always hated how simon lost his magic entirely. i wanted him to at least have a piece of what made him feel he finally belonged somewhere.

**** **Baz**

“Snow?” 

Simon hums in response, not opening his eyes. He’s been in the infirmary for a week or so now, and I’ve been visiting every day. He’d been mostly unresponsive until now.

“Hi,” I breathe, reaching out for his hand. His palm tingles against mine, though whether it’s from warmth or the still-recent thrill of touching him freely, I don’t really know.

“Baz?” He mumbles, voice cracking with disuse. “‘S that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

His hand squeezes mine weakly, and those blue eyes flutter, opening just enough to catch my gaze. My hand is almost burning. I want to kiss it, and so I do. He huffs out a little breathy laugh that turns into a cough.

“Snow--”

“_ Simon, _” he corrects, squinting his eyes, but there’s a smile despite his tone.

“Simon,” I repeat. “Do you know where you are?”

He seems to only now take in his surroundings, casting his gaze around the room. His hair brushes across his pillow, messy bronze curls still miraculously looking fluffy. Light from the windows filters through the curls like sunlight between leaves, kissing his tawny skin. He’s probably the only person in the world who’d look good waking up from a week-long coma. 

“Infirmary?” He guesses after a long moment.

“Yeah, the infirmary.”

“Why am I…?” Snow struggles to sit up, and I reach out with the hand to steady him. Suddenly, his dazed expression hardens, eyes suddenly un-glassy and serious. “The Mage. He’s…?”

“He’s… gone. Yes. Along with the Humdrum.” 

Snow wavers against my hand, tilting back towards the pillows as his face falls. A strangled noise makes its way out from his throat, and I keep my hand on his shoulder in a way I can only hope is somewhat comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. 

“You’re… sorry? Why?”

“I put you all in danger. I shouldn’t have--I could have--”

“Simon,” I say again, and that, predictably, shuts him up. “You did nothing wrong.”

He makes that sound again, somewhere between a sob and a cough, and I’m immediately standing from the chair to wrap my arms around him, bystanders be damned. Simon Snow crumples into my arms, gripping at the back of my shirt, and there’s not a thought in my mind other than _ comfort, console him. _

Countless minutes pass as he cries into my button-down, shudders wracking his body. Every so often, he apologizes again. And every time, I tell him he did nothing to deserve what he’s been through. It’s a sentiment I know all too well.

“Baz?”

“Hm?”

“Is it gone, really?”

“The Humdrum? I saw it happen--”

Snow shakes his head. “My magic,” he murmurs against my chest.

“Oh.” I bite my lip, unsure. “Yes, I think so, Snow. I’m not sure, but... I’m sorry.”

He pulls back. I catch a glimpse of his face and, for a moment, there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I remember how desperate he always was to keep hold of anything magical in his life, despite his inability to cast spells most of the time. I always figured it had to do with his upbringing, his not having much to himself. Snow told me that himself one night, in so many words, while we were on the truce--about how when The Mage took him from foster care, he felt like he’d finally be a part of something, like he belonged somewhere. That had made my stomach ache, remembering all the times I’d ridiculed him for his poor skills in magic; the poor boy couldn’t get a grasp on the sheer power he possessed. I’d never known how strong it was--how _ much _ there was--until he shared it with me.

The wheels start to turn in my head before the memory even leaves my mind. I’ve been so on edge for the past week that I hadn’t noticed the tenseness in my own magic, too.

“Give me your hand,” I say, breaking the silence. He looks confused, but he reaches his hand out into the space between us. When I take it again, the tingling is back, stronger than before. I focus on the warmth of his hand, that phantom sensation of what we did all those nights ago. Just like a tap. Just like a waterfall, but in reverse.

And I push.

And Snow takes.

I don’t think he even realize he’s doing it, but it’s like a leak has sprung; Snow’s well is dry, and my magic is the spring rushing to fill it.

“Baz,” he gasps, pupils dilated and cheeks flushed with warmth as he looks into my eyes. “What are you--”

“Just,” I shake my head. “Just let me.”

He doesn’t fight it. Not until my hands start to shake with the effort of pushing the pool of magic in me into Snow. “That’s too much, Baz. You won’t… That’s enough.”

When he pulls his hand away, I flex my fingers, turning my hand over as if it’s my first time seeing it.

“** _As you were_ ** _ , _” I cast at Snow’s bedsheets, and they begin to move. Rather than snapping back to a crisp fold in a matter of seconds, like my own sheets every morning, though, they slowly uncrumple, nowhere near as evenly folded as I expect.

“You gave me too much,” Snow frowns. “Take it back, Baz.”

“No.”

“_ Baz-- _”

“No, Simon. I won’t. That piece, you left it in me when we fought him. I can’t keep it.”

He looks less than convinced, but it’s the truth. I’ve felt over-filled the past few days, and I’d chalked it up to nerves. It must have been the residue of Snow’s magic the whole time.

“It’s yours,” he argues. 

“It’s yours, too. I want you to have it.”

When those too-blue eyes well with tears for the second time this afternoon, I waste no time in reaching out to wipe them away. “Don’t cry, love,” I murmur. _ Comfort. Console. _

He chokes at my words, and he reaches past my hands, reaches for my arms and _ tugs, _ pulls me to his chest. I can feel his heart beating beneath my cheek. Simon Snow is alive. Simon Snow is alive, and well, and magical, and in my arms. 

I’m not letting go, and neither is he. Not until he leans back, just enough to press his lips against my forehead, against my cheeks, my lips. 

It burns. I can’t bring myself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @shootsharpest ! i'll be crying over wayward son soon enough so come commiserate :-)


End file.
